Dusk and Summer
by wtfrenchtoast
Summary: Robin and Marian share a rare moment of peace together, and Robin prepares a question...RobinMarian. Takes place before Brothers in Arms.
1. Chapter 1

Robin and Marian share a rare moment together. Fluffity fluff fluff fluff. I plan on continuing it, but maybe I shouldn't? We'll see  Song lyrics belong to Seals & Crofts. I do not own any of the characters from Robin Hood BBC.

/ summer breeze makes me feel fine

blowing through the jasmine in my mind /

"That one looks like your mother."

"What? Are you mad? It looks more like _your_ mother! See? The big dark spot, in the middle there, your mum had that mole right over her lip-"

Whack! Quick as lightning, Marian reached over and smacked Robin on the nose. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, more from surprise than pain. A cheeky grin spread across his face. "S'pose I struck a chord with that one, eh?" He put his elbow up to shield himself against her efforts to smack him again and turned away from her, laughing good-naturedly as she made a frustrated little grunt and tried to tweak his nose.

Marian shook her head, trying to look more annoyed than she really felt. She sighed and rolled back over to resume her careful analysis of the clouds above them. Next to her, Robin chewed absentmindedly on his bottom lip. "What about that one? I think it's a dog with a boot growing out of its-"

"Robin!"

Idle moments were a rare delicacy for Robin and his troupe. When they did present themselves, they were grabbed and devoured like a Christmas ham. It was a lovely day in June, sparkling and drowsily warm, and Robin had sneaked into Knighton after midday. Like a lovesick knight, he tossed pebbles through Marian's open window. He waited a few minutes and when it became clear that she was either not at home or ignoring his attempts, he turned to leave. At that moment the unmistakable tip of an arrow was thrust against his spine. He froze, mind racing as he put his hands in the air. A low voice behind him growled, "Cluck. Like a chicken. Or you'll be skewered like one."

What?

Robin, despite the sharp point that was now digging between his shoulder blades, couldn't help but laugh a little at the outrageous request. "Pardon?" he said, incredulously.

"Hurry up," the low voice commanded. "I do not joke. Cluck, or you'll regret it."

I cannot believe this, thought Robin as he began to…cluck. The smile melted off of his face. This is how I am to die. Oh, the irony.

"Flap your arms. Go on, now." Robin raised his arms and bent them at the elbows, and began to flap. "Now cluck, too, did I tell you to stop clucking? That's it, that's a good Robin. You know, you're quite skilled at that! Perhaps you should have been named Chickie, or-"

"All right, enough!" Robin threw his arms down and turned to his attacker, seething. "Have you no shame? Humiliating a man before…oh. Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

Before him stood Marian, her bow drawn, and a manservant a few feet behind her. She was smirking triumphantly. "Spoilsport," she said, the twinkle in her eye betraying exactly how much satisfaction she had achieved from watching him dance like a fool. "Thank you, Gregory. You may go." Her partner in crime ran off, giggling to himself.

Robin made a mocking face. Gregory Wilcox's family would not be getting any meat pies from him this week, no, sir. He folded his arms, his ears burning. "I don't suppose," he said through gritted teeth, "that asking you never to speak of this moment would do any good."

She clasped her hands behind her back and approached him with all the meek shyness of a schoolgirl and that devilish smile still on her face. Leaning into him until their faces were separated by no more than a hair's width, she whispered, "No."

"Then I think it would be wise for me to occupy your lips with another task," he mused. The kiss that followed was more than adequate in doing just that.

Robin reflected upon the events of the afternoon as he lay next to Marian in the breezy meadow. He smiled. It was so painfully rare to have even a few minutes to himself, let alone with her. His hand crept across the ground until it met with hers, and their fingers entwined. Both were silent as they watched the clouds lazily float by.

It was Marian that spoke first. "What are your thoughts?" Her blue eyes, as clear as the sky above them, turned their spectacular gaze on him. Every singular time she did that, it didn't matter whether she was angry, scared, obstinate, joyous – the second her eyes met his, the breath from his lungs instantly dissipated. It was like drowning, falling, and being punched in the face, and then asking to do it again.

He caught his lower lip in his teeth again and chewed on it for a few moments. Finally he answered, "You know where my thoughts lie."

"Au contraire, my lord. I do not. Loving a man does not grant clairvoyant powers, though perhaps they should be part of the bargain."

Robin warmed at that, despite the admonishment. "Well, then. If you must know, my thoughts are here. With you, on this day, at this very moment. Nowhere else. You are the only thing that can shut out the rest of the world from my mind." He gently rubbed her hand between his fingers.

The words sent a wild current through her veins. She brightened and could not help but smile, but Robin's expression seemed to darken. As he held her hand, he gathered his courage, took a deep breath, and said, slowly, "Marian, there is something that I need to ask you." He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. "I do not wish for you to answer in haste. If you feel that you are unprepared, or need more time, then I understand. Do not be afraid to tell me the truth-"

"Cut to the chase, Robin, or you shall not have an answer at all," Marian interrupted. "Or before I age to where I can no longer _hear_ any requests you wish to make of me."

He hesitated. If he does not do this now, he may lose his nerve and therefore his chance.

"Master!"

The new voice broke into their reverie like a bucket of water on a sleeping man. Much stumbled across the meadow frantically. "Master, please hurry! There is…well, he is not quite a visitor, because we caught him, but there is a man, and he wishes to see…you, sort of-"

"Yes, Much, I'm coming," Robin cut him off tersely. He got up rather ungracefully and offered Marian his hand as she joined him on her feet. Disappointment was etched across his face but she did not notice.

The question would have to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

So, I've decided to continue this, thank you to everyone who reviewed, it is much appreciated. :) It's a little less fluffy, but the overall premise of the story is romantic, because I am a love junkie. It takes place before Brothers in Arms. I do not own any of the characters from Robin Hood BBC, but I'm hoping that if I'm a good girl this year I'll get one of them for Christmas…

* * *

A few minutes later, the trio unceremoniously arrived back at the small campsite that had served as the gang's latest headquarters. John, Will, and Allan all stood facing a large oak tree, where their visitor was tied rather sloppily. The man was slender, with a nose like a bird's beak and thin, hollowed cheekbones that all combined to give him a haughty appearance. Allan approached Robin first. "Thank God you lot are back. Caught this bugger on the smaller road outside Nettlestone. Think he's lost. He had a purse, but the money…well, let's just say that whatever these are, they won't do us much good at the tavern." Disappointed, he handed Robin a strangely printed coin.

Robin flipped the coin between his fingers, studying the markings intently. This was no shilling, that was for certain. He glanced up at the sickly-looking fellow tied to the tree. Their strange interloper hadn't uttered a word since his arrival. His expensive clothing and hairstyle were clearly foreign and Robin could bet no man in England had a mustache like that and lived to talk about it. He turned to him and said, slowly, "What is your name?"

The man stared back at Robin without so much as a peep. He didn't even appear to comprehend the question. "Your name?" Robin repeated. The man's eyebrows went up, indicating that whatever Robin was saying, it was completely lost on him. Suddenly Robin had a flash of understanding. A regular tower of Babel we have here, he thought to himself. Slowly, stumbling a bit over the difficult sounds, he forced out, "Sprechen Sie deutsch?" Another puzzled look from their captive decisively indicated that no, he did not speak German. Robin decided to try another avenue. "Vous parlez français?"

The look of utter relief on the man's face was like a starved man at the head of a great feast. "Ah! Merci! Tu dois me libères, j'ai affaires pressant dans chef de la police à Nottingham. S'il vous plait! J'ai de l'argent peu. Je ne veux pas se battre avec vous."

The gang stared at the man like he had sprouted horns and proclaimed himself King of the Hill. Much leaned in curiously. His expression turned indignant. "I think he just swore at us!" he exclaimed. "I heard a 'bloody' something in there, I know it."

Robin ignored him. "He speaks French, "he mused aloud. A plethora of questions arose in his mind – what was a man who could speak no English doing in the heart of England? Why travel alone, with no retinue to protect him, when he clearly was of a relatively privileged background? Was this of the sheriff's doing?

Marian pushed Much aside. "Hush," she admonished. "He said that he has urgent business in Nottingham, and that he has little money. He does not wish to fight." She took a deep breath. "Let me speak to him. The sheriff could be trying to secure foreign allies to serve his own ends. Or, he could be visiting his cousin. Nothing a few pounds won't fix." She dug into her purse.

Robin was intrigued. "You know French?"

Irritated, Marian replied, "Yes, I know French. Unlike you, I paid attention during my lessons instead of lighting things on fire." She knelt down to the weary Frenchman's level. In her hands she held a small dagger and several gold coins. She proceeded to inform him in her best French that if he was working for the sheriff, whatever he was being paid would be doubled if he agreed to turn around and go home. If he chose to continue his affairs in Nottingham, he would be strung up like a Christmas wreath and left for the crows to pick on.

The small man listened and frowned. "Non, non, tu ne comprends pas. J'envisage les mariages. Je vais se recontrer Guy à Gisborne." The expression on his face spoke volumes. Who were you expecting, the King of England?

Marian fell back on the ground. Gisborne sent for a…French wedding planner? The weight of this revelation echoed around her like a church bell. Although Guy hovered around her as though his life depended on it, he had not formally proposed to her. The idea that he was already making arrangements for nuptials that did not yet exist was infuriating to her.

When Marian was eight years old, she had known a village boy that had caught a butterfly one hazy summer day. The boy had boasted to all of the other children how beautiful the tiny creature was and how he alone possessed it. A girl suggested he let it go, so it could fly away and be in its natural state, but he vehemently refused. He kept it cupped in his grubby hands for hours until that evening when he opened his fingers. The butterfly lay in a tiny dead heap in his palm. He was horrified, but there was also a certain satisfaction in his eyes – as though, even if it had died, at least he had been able to own it for a little while and have some hand in its fate.

Marian had seen in Guy the same terrifying desire to control, to possess, to own. The bare truth of it was that he would suffocate her, content to keep her locked up if it meant that he could greedily keep her all to himself.

It had occurred to her in the past that he was the sort of man that refused to let things unfold organically. He saw no obstacle that could not be felled by force. Of course, he had approached her in the traditional way, bringing gifts and offerings of "friendship," though they both knew that was pretense, a mere stepping-stone for him to work his way into her good graces. But when met with resistance, Guy was quick to anger, turning vicious and ruthless, lashing out with a rage unparalleled by any other person she had ever known. She had seen what this was like, and though he did not intimidate her, there was something uncontrollably driven, something evil in him that she did not want to be on the receiving end of.

And yet…sometimes her pity outweighed her revulsion for him. When she could catch a rare glimpse of a shred of compassion that the sheriff had not yet belittled out of him, she found herself feeling…_something_. She could not quite grasp what that meant, but it kept her from slamming the door in his face and instead, quietly closing it with an apologetic smile.

"Marian?" Robin's voice interrupted her miasma of thoughts. "What did he say?"

She blinked briskly, realizing that while she was lost in her own mind, everyone had been expectantly waiting to hear her translation of their French prisoner's reply. Hesitating, she nervously pushed her hair behind her ear and said, "He is the new master of celebrations for the sheriff. Apparently he decided that he wanted some _couture_ in his parties." She got up and wove through the rest of the gang as she made her way towards her horse. "I must be getting back before my father recognizes my absence."

Much snorted and folded his arms in defiance. "I'll show the sheriff what _couture_ means." The gang was silent. Much swallowed sheepishly. "What…does _couture_ mean?" Little John groaned as the rest of the gang started to disperse to their prior activities. When his inquiry went ignored, Much too went back to skinning potatoes.

"A party planner," Will shook his head as he began to untie their foreign prisoner. "S'pose the worst he can do is order the wrong flowers, eh?" The slight man rubbed his chafed wrists and adjusted his disheveled clothing. With a snobby grunt, he headed in the direction of his horse.

Robin was very quiet. _Les mariages_. _Guy __à__ Gisborne_. He hadn't paid as little attention in his lessons as Marian had purported.

As the Frenchman passed him, Robin grabbed his wrist. "Restez-vous," he mumbled at him, never taking his eyes off Marian.

* * *

If my French is crappy, please pardon me. I'm on my way to hopefully becoming fluent and I like to pepper my stories with a little bit of francais every now and then, just for…craps…and giggles. :) By the way: Restez-vous means Stay.


	3. Chapter 3

Marian's horse trotted gently through the gates of Nottingham Castle, her rich chestnut locks bouncing lightly in the summery breeze. She glanced around in slight surprise; lost in her own thoughts, she had barely noticed that she had arrived at her destination. She dismounted and allowed her horse to be led away by the stablehand.

She quickly ascended the main stairs of the castle and, as discreetly as possible, sneaked downstairs into the kitchen. If anyone would know anything about a strange visitor, it would be the cooks and the kitchen maids. Carefully she edged into the storeroom and crouched behind a barrel of ale.

A high-pitched, squeaky voice was tittering incessantly about the price of grain amid the bustle of the kitchen. "Why, when I was a girl I can remember when grain was as cheap as the dirt under our feet! Madness, it is, I tell you. Farmers should be 'shamed of themselves to charge what they do. Oi, I almost forgot! Did you 'ear about Anna and that boy from Scarborough? Ran right off into the sunset, they did! If you ask me, she was headed for trouble anyway, probably best she's gone…"

Marian rolled her eyes and shifted her weight a bit. If she had a shilling for every minute she spent eavesdropping on worthless dribble, she'd be the richest woman on God's green earth. Nevertheless, the one precious tidbit of information she could glean from these mind-numbing fishing trips was always worth its weight in gold.

She tried to convince herself that the reason why she was going to such great lengths to investigate their Frenchman was purely practical: what if he was no wedding planner? He could be a messenger. Or an ambassador. If he was here for political reasons, he either needed to be stopped or protected. And then she could justify sitting behind an ale barrel on a dirty floor for the better part of an hour, sifting through the mundane titillations of a kitchen girl.

After what felt like a millennia of relentless gossip, her efforts yielded a prize. "Sweet baby Jesus, what are those? Are those _snails_? What on earth are they doing in the kitchen? Out with them, get rid of them now, Elizabeth!"

"No, no, we are to cook them! Sir Guy is having a guest from France, I've heard, and he…eats these. With butter. Word has it 'round the castle that he's planning some extravagant engagement party for Sir Guy. He's fixing to propose to Lady Marian! Mark my words though, if he serves these things I wouldn't marry him if my life depended on it."

Marian let her head fall back against the barrel. So it's true. He's planning on bullying me into a betrothal-

"Marian? What are you doing?"

She snapped her head up, right into the piercing gaze of Guy of Gisborne. "Guy!" She smiled quickly, trying to buy herself precious seconds to spin up a story. "I had an apple, and it fell down the stairs, and I went to get it but there was a mouse, and then I hid, because I am dreadfully afraid of mice, I hid until it went away. Is it gone?" She poked her head up over the barrel and pretended to check for mice.

Guy shook his head and chuckled. He offered her his hand, which she reluctantly accepted. His other hand went to the small of her back. Inwardly she grimaced and tried her best not to recoil. "Allow me to rescue you from this bloodthirsty beast," he jested, in a weak attempt at being funny. The joke dropped from the air like a stone.

They walked together in silence for a moment, awkwardly, as usual. Marian tried, as she had always done, to guide their conversation like she would an unruly dog – carefully, to avoid being bitten. Guy was forever picking at her words for inconsistencies and she had to be diligent. "What business do you have planned for today?" she inquired, hoping her question did not sound as suspicious as it felt.

"I am expecting a visitor," he answered. "From France. He is coming to assist the sheriff with preparations for a certain…celebration." He stopped and turned to her. "I must attend to the sheriff and prepare to mediate. Vasey does not take kindly to foreigners. Especially the French. I trust I will see you soon?"

Again, that piercing stare that was both imploring and pleading. Marian smiled sweetly. "Of course, Sir Guy. I will look forward to it."

He gently took her hand and kissed her fingers. "So will I," he murmured. He reluctantly turned and walked towards the sheriff's quarters.

Marain exhaled the long breath she didn't realize she had been holding. Her eyes flicked to Guy's retreating back and gave him a good twenty paces' head start before she began silently following him.

* * *

Robin was stern. The dagger he held to the man's throat was effective in enhancing his position. "Qu'est que votre les affaires à Nottingham?" The man squirmed in fear. Beads of sweat crystallized on his forehead and began to drip. "Dites-moi la vérité. S'il vous plait," he hissed. The blade was dangerously close to a major blood vessel and the man could feel it. "Dêpeche-toi!"

The rest of the gang watched in silent apprehension. They were generally aware of a few of Robin's personalities: cheeky, devil-may-care Robin, determined and purposeful Robin, quiet, introspective Robin…and then the side that could only be described as Glimpse of Hell Robin. Few things, thankfully, could provoke the crazed killing machine that came roaring out when something threatened Marian or King Richard.

"Comment t'appelle tu?" Robin growled. The reality of what he may have to do if he could not dredge out what this man's intentions were was beginning to dawn on him. He could not risk letting someone through to the castle that may be dangerous, even if he was a supposed "wedding planner." What an absurd notion, even for the extravagant French.

"Je m'appelle Jean. Jean Marchand." Jean's eyes were as large and round as soup bowls.

Allan glanced nervously between Robin and his captive. "Say, y'know, Robin, as much as we all love a bit o' drama, maybe you should let him go? A party planner, that's all he is. Can't see him doin' much damage, right? 'Cept maybe to Gisborne's purse." He chuckled and looked at the rest of the gang for support. Everyone else fidgeted and looked nearly as uncomfortable as he was.

Robin let out a sigh. "We can't guarantee that he's not a threat. Even if he is nothing more than a master of celebrations, I just cannot allow him that chance." Robin held back the niggling reason for his obstinacy: any bit of misery he could cause Gisborne or the sheriff was worth its weight in gold. "I have a plan. We will show our guest the finer points of forest living and send someone else to relieve him of his duties." A mischievous smile grew on his face. The gang could, to their rising concern, hear the wheels and gears turning in Robin's head.

"Send a replacement? But who? None of us speak French, half of us can barely speak proper English-" A nasty glare from Djaq quickly silenced Allan's complaint. "I didn't mean you! I-I just, y'know what I mean, it's not like we've been educated, it's nothing-"

"Master, think of the consequences!" Much interrupted. He was wildly indignant. "We're too well-known, we'll be caught instantly and then we'll go to the dungeon and _die_-"

"Fine," Robin countered. He shrugged. "I suppose I'll just have to kill him then." He drew his sword with a flourish. "Can anyone say 'shish kebobs' in French?"

"No!" Jean's voice squealed. "Enough! I'll tell you what you want!" His voice was so laden with a heavy French accent it was nearly impossible to understand him.

Robin raised his eyebrows. "Ah, so _la vérité_ comes out." He kneeled down and held the blade to Jean's throat. "Now talk. Or I may get bored. And we do not want to talk about what happens when I get bored. _S'il vous plait_."

* * *

I'm really not sure where I want this to go next. I have some ideas, but if you have any better ones (and chances are with the writer's block I'm suffering from, you probably do) let me know! Thanks immensely for the reviews!!


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